Marbles Thrown Against A Mirror
by fangirlplease
Summary: John Watson is recovering. He is coping. He is discovering himself. Without his consulting detective. (Johnlock, Post-Reichenbach, M for theoretical future sexy times.)


**Authors Note: This is the very first chapter of my very first Sherlock fic. (The title comes from "Wild Sage" by The Mountain Goats, a song I listened to alot while writing this.) This is JohnLock. Rated for future chapters (and sort of this one)? Please, reviews are so indescribably vital to me! Even if it's just a "Good!" or a "RUBBBBIISSHHH!1!", I thrive on opinions. So, now that I've gotten that over with, please enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 1

I can not sleep the first night.

Most of the evening is spent staring around the flat, searching for any evidence that he's still alive. I know that I saw him fall before my eyes, and I remember that he didn't have a pulse. I see the vivid red of his blood splashed on the pavement. My eyes snap shut, and I run to the toilet so that I may vomit in seclusion.

As I escape the foul scent of the loo, I realize the implications of what had just happened. I am used to blood and gore, being a doctor, and if I can no longer handle this? Well, I may as well be unemployed.

Then again, sometimes a puddle formed from your best friends leaking, magnificent brain hurts the viewer more than the average paper cut.

My feet move me around the flat, unsure of what they are even trying to make me do. I am waiting. I am waiting for him to arrive, to jump through the door and drag me out on another adventure. I wait and wait and wait and do not stop waiting.

* * *

I can not sleep the second night.

It is almost exactly the same as the previous evening, except I have sat down.

There is no tea in the flat. And I do not understand why I am hurt by this, but something is wrong about my not having tea. My mind is turning everything into a metaphor. I do not like it.

* * *

I do not sleep the third night.

* * *

I collapse on the couch the fourth day. It is not a restful kip. Tossing and turning, I yell his name at the top of my sleep-deprived lungs. I have terrified Ms. Hudson. The motherly woman brings me tea from her flat and comforts me when I need it. She cannot look at me, and I do not blame her.

Something about having the land lady as my only comfort bothers me. I could call Harry, but that would not end well. Lestrade would almost assuredly listen, but I can not look at him yet.

No, the only person I really want to see right now is Ms. Hudson.

Finally, I reach a single, peaceful strand of unconsciousness, still being held as though I were a child.

* * *

I wake the next evening, alone, having slept for approximately 20 hours. There are a few glorious moments, right after I open my eyes, where in I've forgotten everything. Then I see his chair, vacant and accusing.

I remember.

The wave of depression does not hit me, nor does it assault me - the wave throws me against a wall and rapes me. The wave stares me in the eyes and tells me I am worthless. The wave rocks my entire being into a slumped mass of pain and regret. The wave is not a wave, it is a knife bearing into my sides, gauging until my head is numb and I can not be bothered to move. I think I feel a hand with long delicate fingers brush my cheek. I look, but I am completely alone.

I stay there for a while; disheveled, lying on our couch in the fetal position, and it is all I can do to continue breathing.

* * *

Lestrade visits me on day six. I try very hard to seem sane, but something in his worried stare tells me I have failed.

We discuss work, we discuss current events (which I am woefully behind on), but we never mention him. Maybe it's because neither of us believe he's gone yet, maybe it's because neither of us can stomach the idea that he is. Maybe it's because there are parts of both of us blaming the Detective Inspector for Sherlocks death. It is almost nice, my flat mate not being the center of attention. For once, he has to sit in the corner, a constant presence.

Absence.

Greg asks me to go have a pint, but I must decline. While I would like nothing more than to get entirely pissed, I make the strategic decision to stay home. I know how I behave when I am inebriated, and it would not do to express the weak condition of my mind to the poor man. He is still feeling hurt. He is still guilty.

Once Lestrade has left, my mind allows its self to creep into our dark places. I jump directly to the small vestiges of powerful emotion left (pain, regret, and anger) and cling for dear life. My brain encourages this, wants me to try. It does not want to go numb, yet it knows that soon, it will have no choice. My eyes shut automatically, allowing the grief to do its work.

* * *

A week after the fall, I realize I'm missing something. I'm missing something within the person I'm missing, and I'm not sure what it is. The whole is raw, burning, and I can not stop focusing on its presence.

I pray for something tangible to show itself, to acknowledge that it was there the entire time. That it knew what is was doing before it even began.

I run through everything left inside me, but I cannot find it, what I feel I'm missing.

As luck would have it, I find my answer the next night. In the shower, as many revelations occur. I am going through the usual routine, the bit where I relieve... stress. Fantasy and lust flash quickly in my head, I aim for convenance, not quality.

His face flashes. And then it stays. And then it speaks.

I am relieved.

I've found my answer, and it is so obvious and easy that I feel like an idiot for not realizing. But there's something to be said for me, due to the fact that the man denounced the idea upon our first little adventure. Still, I am demoralized and stunned by what I've discovered about myself.

Shit.


End file.
